Tainted Love: Book One

♪♪ Bad Dreams ♪♪ by Ruelle The air in the shed felt oppressive, heavy with fear and the sharp tang of blood. Wren’s wrists burned where the metal shackles bit into her skin, her every struggle making them dig deeper. Her chest heaved as she fought to breathe past the taste of sweat and copper in her mouth. Bruises painted her arms and legs in shades of deep purple and sickly yellow, and her ribs screamed with every shallow breath she took. A figure stood before her, a shadow of death cloaked in cold cruelty. His eyes were like shards of ice, piercing and merciless, and his lips curled in a sneer that promised nothing but pain. "And if I put a gun to your head, do I become a bad person?" His voice was low, unhurried, like he was savoring the terror in her wide eyes. Wren flinched as the words hit her, each one slicing through the fragile thread of hope she clung to. She could barely see him through the blood matting her hair and dripping into her eyes, but she didn’t need clear vision to feel his rage and to know that he was the boss everyone talked about. It radiated from him in waves, raw and unrelenting. “Please…” she whispered, her voice cracking and trembling. She tugged again at the shackles, knowing full well there was no escape but desperate for even the illusion of control. He tilted his head, the motion eerily calm. "You had three months to pay me back. Three. Months. And you thought running off with my money was the best idea?” The sharp click of the gun’s hammer being c****d made her stomach drop. He pressed the barrel against her forehead, cold steel biting into her skin. “You thought you could run away with my f*****g money? My money?” His voice rose, sharp and venomous, filling the shed with an echo that seemed to close in on her. Wren’s body betrayed her; a shiver ran down her spine, and her knees wobbled beneath her. The cold sweat dripping from her brow mixed with the sticky warmth of blood, tracing a path down her temple. Her mouth was dry, her throat raw, but she forced herself to speak, to think. “If you kill me now,” she rasped, “you lose everything I owe you. All of it. Dead people don’t pay debts, Riven.” Her voice wavered, but she kept talking, dragging each second out like it might save her life. “And alive people don’t run,” he hissed back, pressing the gun harder against her skull. She swallowed hard, ignoring the lump of fear clawing up her throat. “They do if they’re stupid. But I’m here now, aren’t I? Facing you. That has to count for something.” The man's lip twitched, a flash of irritation breaking through his deadly calm. He hated games, and Wren knew it. But she also knew he wasn’t impulsive. He didn’t kill for fun. He killed for purpose. And she had to make herself useful enough to live. “I’ll do anything,” she continued, her voice steadying. “Work for you. Pay it back. Double. Triple. Whatever it takes.” “You?” He laughed, a sound colder than winter frost. “What could you possibly offer me, Servitude? Loyalty? You threw that away the moment you ran. Hard work? You’re pathetic, bleeding on my floor like a mangy dog.” Her heart thundered in her chest, but she held his gaze. “I’m smart. Smarter than anyone you’ve got. And I’ll prove it. Give me a chance, please. Just one chance.” His eyes narrowed, his finger twitching on the trigger. For a moment, she thought he’d pull it, ending everything right there. But then, he stepped back, lowering the gun. “Fine,” he said coldly, his tone laced with menace. “But if you run again, if you even think about crossing me…” His voice dropped to a whisper, deadly and intimate. “I’ll kill you, your brother, and anyone who’s ever said your name. Slowly.” Wren’s breath came in ragged gasps as he turned and walked out, his boots echoing against the concrete. The silence he left behind was deafening, but the relief was short-lived. Moments later, the shed door creaked open. A woman stepped in, her face a blank mask. She said nothing as she released Wren’s shackles, her movements mechanical. “Follow me,” the woman said, her voice flat and lifeless. Every step was agony as Wren stumbled after her. Her legs buckled beneath her weight, her knees raw from earlier scrapes. Her head pounded like a war drum, and every inch of her body screamed in protest. The room they entered was small, sterile, and suffocating. A single bed sat against the wall, its clean sheets mocking her bruised, filthy body. “This is where you’ll stay,” the woman said before disappearing. Wren sank onto the bed, wincing as pain flared through her ribs. Her muscles felt like they’d been torn apart and stitched back together with barbed wire. But even through the haze of exhaustion and pain, her mind raced. She wouldn’t survive this place by chance. She had to be smarter, faster, better. And she had to escape before Riven decided her usefulness had run out. A sharp knock on the door snapped her out of her thoughts. She opened it to find a tall, scarred man with a permanent scowl. “Work starts now,” he barked, thrusting a thick book into her hands. She barely caught it, its weight nearly knocking her off balance. The words Rule Book were stamped in bold letters on the cover. “You’ve got one job,” the man growled, his voice low and dangerous. “Follow the rules. And don’t make me regret letting you live.” Wren’s grip tightened on the book as the door slammed shut. She swallowed the bile rising in her throat. This wasn’t survival. This was a game. And if she wanted to win, she’d have to play by their rules… until she could rewrite them. The harsh fluorescent lights buzzed faintly above Wren as she stood frozen in the center of the room, the black rule book still clutched tightly to her chest. Her fingers ached from gripping it too hard, but the weight of the man’s parting words lingered heavier than the book itself. "I’ll gladly put a gun to your head." Her pulse raced. Stay alive. Just stay alive, she repeated silently, like a mantra, as her legs began to move mechanically, carrying her deeper into the eerily quiet space. The man barked again, his voice sharp enough to slice through the fog in her mind. “I said walk faster.” Wren’s feet shuffled quicker, though her body protested every step. Every muscle felt like it had been wrung dry and left to ache. The giant door they approached loomed like a gateway to hell, its thick iron frame radiating cold. She swallowed hard as he shoved it open with a metallic groan. Inside, the atmosphere shifted immediately. The building she was led into was colder, quieter, and void of the armed guards she'd seen elsewhere. No clicking guns or sharp, threatening stares. Instead, the space was filled with people. Workers. Their movements were deliberate, precise, almost mechanical. They barely looked at her as she passed, though Wren felt the weight of their stolen glances, eyes flitting toward her like ghosts before vanishing again. The air was thick, suffocating in its silence, broken only by the occasional shuffle of footsteps or the dull scrape of something being moved. The man stopped abruptly, turning to face her with that same stern, no-nonsense glare. He pointed to a section of the large, dimly lit room—a cluster of cleaning supplies stacked against the wall. “Your job starts here. Clean everything until it shines. Floors, windows, shelves. Everything. If it’s not spotless, I’ll know.” Wren opened her mouth to ask how long she was expected to work, but the sharpness in his gaze silenced her before she could speak. “Don’t think of talking to anyone,” he added, his voice low but firm. “And don’t even think about trying something stupid. I’ll be back to check.” He leaned in slightly, his scarred face inches from hers. “And trust me, you don’t want me coming back angry.” She nodded quickly, her throat dry. “Yes, sir.” “Don’t call me that.” He straightened, adjusting the gun at his waist for her to see that he meant what he said. “It’s Dom.” With that, he turned and walked away, his heavy boots echoing through the space until they faded entirely. Wren exhaled shakily, gripping the rule book tighter. She glanced around the room again, her eyes darting from one worker to the next. Each one moved with precision, their faces blank, their eyes downcast. It was unsettling—like watching puppets being yanked around by invisible strings. She lowered the book, staring down at its bold black cover. “You don’t even know what the hell is in this thing,” she muttered under her breath. Her voice was barely audible, but even that felt too loud in the oppressive silence. She flinched, looking around to make sure no one had noticed. No one seemed to. The workers kept moving, heads down, hands busy. But the eerie quiet still pressed in on her. “Okay, Wren,” she whispered to herself, shifting her weight carefully to ease the ache in her bruised ribs. “Be reasonable. Be smart. You can’t die here. Not now.” Her voice cracked slightly, but she forced herself to keep talking. “Play along. Clean floors. Scrub windows. Whatever they want. Just… stay alive.” The cleaning supplies were crude, old-fashioned brushes and rags tossed into a dented metal bucket. Wren grabbed them quickly, her movements stiff and jerky, and dragged them to the nearest corner. Her knees screamed in protest as she crouched down, running the coarse brush over the floor. Each stroke sent sharp jolts of pain through her arms and back, but she gritted her teeth, forcing herself to focus. This isn’t forever, she thought, scrubbing harder. The bristles tore at the grime on the floor—and at her raw palms. You’re smarter than this place. Smarter than Riven. Just play along until you find a way out. A shadow shifted in her peripheral vision. She glanced up instinctively, catching the faintest flicker of movement. One of the workers—an older woman with tired eyes and a stooped posture—looked at her for half a second before snapping her gaze back to her work. Wren swallowed hard, dragging her focus back to the floor. Don’t look. Don’t engage. She gripped the brush tighter, scrubbing until her fingers cramped. The hours dragged. Every stroke of the brush felt like an eternity, every creak of the building or shuffle of feet a reminder of how trapped she was. She tried to tune out the ache in her body, the weight of her exhaustion, and the oppressive silence that hung over the room. But her mind refused to quiet. Why aren’t there guards here? she wondered, glancing around cautiously. Every other part of the building she’d seen had been crawling with the boss’ men. Armed, alert, dangerous. Here, there was nothing. Just workers and the faint hum of machinery in the distance. The boss wasn't here either. The thought brought her a flicker of relief—and a deeper wave of dread. He wasn’t here, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t watching. Wren’s hands slowed as the thought settled in her chest, heavy and cold. He’s testing you, she realized, her heart sinking. Watching to see if you’ll slip up. She straightened slightly, glancing around the room one last time. The workers remained focused, their movements as lifeless as before. The older woman who had glanced at her earlier hadn’t looked up again. Wren lowered her gaze, her grip tightening on the brush. “Stay alive,” she whispered again, forcing herself to keep scrubbing. “Just stay alive.”